


Sleep, Hugs, and Notebooks Filled With Poetry

by BlueJay26



Series: Poetry and Birds [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Fluff, Just theres no other way to describe it, Just two muffins in love, M/M, Poetry, Soft Andrew Minyard, Soft Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, literal fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:02:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25824820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueJay26/pseuds/BlueJay26
Summary: Andrew and Neil clean his room in the Colombia house. Sometimes, trips down memory lane aren't that bad.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Series: Poetry and Birds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1888687
Comments: 14
Kudos: 203





	Sleep, Hugs, and Notebooks Filled With Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted ONE thing that would comfort little Andrew. I think he deserves it.

Nicky wants to sell the Colombia house. He's going to Germany with Erik, and the monsters can survive without him. Neil tags along to help, at Andrew's request.

He's helping Andrew unpack some boxes in his bedroom. Boxes Andrew brought straight from juvie and dumped in a corner, hoping never to see them again. Neil knows he's there to ground Andrew as much as to help physically.

They're sorting everything into two piles; one to keep and one to dump at the local Salvation Army. Neil pulls things from the box, and Andrew indicates which pile it goes in. It's going well, considering the task at hand. Neil had asked if Andrew wanted him to deal with the boxes, but Andrew had shaken his head and marched up the stairs purposefully. 

Neil doesn't take much interest in the throw pile, knowing it must hold bad memories. The keep pile has two items so far: a key tag, and a copy of the Vedas. Neil doesn't ask; it's none of his business.

The next thing out of the box surprises Neil. A worn, leather-bound notebook, well-thumbed and clearly used. Andrew raises his eyebrows the slightest bit when he sees it, holds his hand out for it.

He flips through it, pausing on certain pages. He gives it back to Neil, nodding to show he can open it. Neil hesitates, then opens it when Andrew flicks a finger against his knee. 

There in small, neat, black writing, poems. Poems upon poems. Every page is filled with haikus, free verse, rhymes, anything that had caught a young Andrew's fancy. Neil looks up.

"Cigarette break. Come." Andrew says, getting up and shaking his legs out. Neil puts the notebook between the two piles, and follows.

Leaning against the house, Andrew speaks, "I was ten. I had read all the books in the children section. The librarian gave me a book of poems by R. L. Stevenson. It was horrible."

He stops, waiting for Neil to say something. "Oh? That was not the way I saw this going." Andrew waves his cigarette in Neil's face and continues.

"He was so _positive_. She printed off a booklet of poems by Romantic poets next. I liked those. They were melancholy. Romantic as in the nature poets, not the love ones."

Neil nods. He can see why Andrew would like poets like Ruth Pitter and William Cowper. 

"I memorised them in a weekend. I was back in the system a month later. Before I left, she gave me the notebook. Told me it was good to keep poetry close. I would look poems up online and copy them down."

Neil smiles at him, clearly poetry is something Andrew loves. He talks about it the same way Neil talks about exy. He leans his head on Andrew's shoulder, and waits to see if there's any more.

"You can read it sometime." Andrew says, the unexpected show of trust making Neil's heart beat a little faster. 

"Thank you." They go inside, and Andrew puts everything else in the throw pile.

Which is how two nights later, when Neil can't sleep, Andrew pushes the notebook into his hands, turns the bedside lamp on, and goes back to sleep. Neil doesn't mind, he knows how hard it is to open up to someone. 

Ten-year-old Andrew had neater handwriting than twenty-three-year-old Neil does. It was precise, each period and comma deliberate. Not unlike everything else Andrew did.

The first pages are filled with the same three poets, the ones that introduced Andrew to poetry. He reads the poems with Andrew's voice in his mind, and somewhere in the back of his mind Neil wonders how Andrew reads poetry. Does his voice change, does he keep the rhythm, how does he interpret these poems?

A week later, Andrew can't sleep, and after pacing their living room for an hour, he takes his keys and waits by the door for Neil. Neil grabs their jackets, and, as an afterthought, the notebook. 

They drive and drive, and then they drive some more. Andrew stops in an empty parking lot. He swings his legs into Neil's lap, and leans back against the window. "Read to me."

Neil shakes his head, of course Andrew knew he'd bring it. He starts at the beginning, and reads the first poem, about a bird. A bird and Hope. 

Andrew holds his hand out when he finishes; he reads the next poem, the low cadence of his voice entrancing Neil. They pass it back and forth, till Andrew yawns halfway through the fifth poem. Neil gets out and Andrew crawls over the gearshift into the passenger seat.

Andrew sleeps late the next morning, waking up with an almost smile on his face. He hugs Neil when he walks into the kitchen, and Neil smiles into his shoulder.

And that is how a new tradition started in the Minyard-Josten household.

**Author's Note:**

> This is way longer than I intended, but hey, hope it was a good read. Might do a sequel.


End file.
